"Attentive--to whom?" she asked quickly, and in a very low voice. "To
my mother?"
Mr. Catherwaight did not deign to open his eyes this time, but moved
his head uneasily as if he wished to be let alone.
"To your mother, of course, my child," he answered; "of whom else was
I speaking?"
Miss Catherwaight went down the stairs to the drawing-room slowly, and
paused half-way to allow this new suggestion to settle in her mind.
There was something distasteful to her, something that seemed not
altogether unblamable, in a woman's having two men quarrel about her,
neither of whom was the woman's husband. And yet this girl of whom
Latimer had spoken must be her mother, and she, of course, could do no
wrong. It was very disquieting, and she went on down the rest of the
way with one hand resting heavily on the railing and with the other
pressed against her cheeks. She was greatly troubled. It now seemed to
her very sad indeed that these two one-time friends should live in the
same city and meet, as they must meet, and not recognize each other.
She argued that her mother must have been very young when it happened,
or she would have brought two such men together again. Her mother
could not have known, she told herself; she was not to blame.
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